Remnants of a Reflection
by hypersoda
Summary: Existence is piecing together the remnants of one's last reflection, then creating new reflections from those remnants. By doing this, we grow. Dave and Karkat are both outsiders to society. Dave is a winged boy who cannot fly, while Karkat is a mutant whose blood color leaves him a target for execution. When they meet, a chain of reflection begins, the world changing rapidly. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Remnants of Reflection**

* * *

A young body scaled down the crag, legs pumping uncontrollably; feet slipped haphazardly down the rocks. The boy tumbled and scraped his knees, but refused to feel the stinging; the adrenaline melding to his bloodstream told him so. He was young, barely eighteen. But he had one simple goal in mind, one that he had striven to achieve for over four years. Today would be the day, he would make sure of it. He'd be damned otherwise. Suddenly, he lurched to a sudden stop near the base of the hill, the dry flat plains sprawling below.

Just one deep breath. That was all he needed, he thought mechanically; the oxygen worked its way through his lungs like clockwork. It bubbled deep in his chest, and he sucked in until he could hold no more. And before he knew it, the breath was expelled, and they spread out on either side of him, the sunlight splaying along the orange feathered monstrosities.

Just then, the wind picked up; his wings ruffled, and he felt the longing for flight bubbling deep inside him-

And then he jumped, the air catching in his wings for just a moment; for the rest of his life, he would remember the feeling of weightlessness in those precious few seconds. He sank rapidly back to the ground, body scraping ungracefully against the sandy rock. A groan arose from his throat and he stayed still for a moment, waiting for the initial pain to subside.

Gradually, he lifted himself up, leaning his body forward and sitting cross-legged. He muttered curses under his breath, trying to understand why he couldn't fly, when he should have been able to five years ago. Even three years ago wouldn't have been too bad; at that rate, he would have been just a late bloomer. But now, something was definitely wrong.

_No, no, don't tell yourself that, Dave_, the boy's thoughts echoed. _You will fly someday, just not today._

_Who are you kidding? If you couldn't fly then, how the hell do you think you could fly now? How much more worthless could you possibly be, a person with wings who can't even fly. Your brother flew-_

_-And he's gone now. Because he could fly. See, flying is terrible, flying is bad, it's glad that you can't-_

_Stop, Dave. Just. Stop._

Forcing his mind to break from its self-destructive revelations, he stood, ruffling his wings; thumbing through the feathers, checking for injuries. They were sensitive things, but not as sensitive as one might think – at least, not on humans. Wings could stomach a little bit of tumbling, even a little rough-housing. Of course, if you stuck a sword or something through, then yeah – ow, that would hurt quite a bit.

He finished the self check-up, taking note of some minor bruises and scratches. Just a few more obstacles he overcame in his goal of flying, of being like his brother. Of being brave.

It would eventually happen; deep in his subconscious, he knew that. Or, he believed that, but it didn't stop him from spending long nights screaming into the pitch black sky out of frustration.

Eventually, he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, willing his focus to return to the natural world. In the distance, he could hear the sound of approaching horses, or hoofbeasts, as Dave once overheard them; he could faintly see the orange blurs of the riders' horns closing in.

The nearest city, though far, was one populated with these people – or rather, trolls. They despised being equated to humans, who were generally smaller in stature, in muscle build; beings who generally lacked the fantastic abilities that most trolls did. But of course, there were exceptions that would occasionally frighten them.

Like humans with wings. Though they lacked the supernatural abilities that many trolls had, they made up for it in sheer prowess; most were actually stronger than the huskiest of trolls. Simply the sighting of a winged being would scare most of them away.

Of course, Dave didn't want to get too involved. After all, if he made a scene, the trolls would send an army out to look for him. As far as they knew, there was almost nobody like him in existence; most winged people had been hunted into extinction in the last war. His brother, Dirk, had been the last one in the area, or so they had thought.

He ducked behind an area of rocks, trying to stay as far out of their sight as possible. Dave had gone his entire life without being spotted, and hoped to keep that record going. But even still, he was curious, scouting to see what this squadron was up to.

Or rather, it wasn't even an army. Judging by their lengthy black coats and insignias, they were an execution team, the harbingers of death to thousands of innocent trolls every year. Granted, most weren't truly innocent; after all, trolls were known for their violent tendencies. But then there were those who had simply been present when a crime had taken place and couldn't offer any knowledge, trolls who were unable to explain their otherwise innocent actions. And then there were the ones hatched with defects, encompassing problems from a missing finger to speech problems to immobility. If you did not fit into a category in their society, you deserved to die; you were unfit, unnecessary to the continue survival of the race.

Which was why Dave felt his heart bubble whenever he saw the team bringing out a young troll, shoulders tense, eyes bulging with fear. Most were found out even before reaching Dave's age. As he grew older and watched the divide grow between himself and the condemned, he had learned to count his blessings, even though, in the worst times he'd feel a scratching at the back of his head of what he had lost.

It still hurt every time he saw them bring out a new victim.

* * *

The executioner dismounted, then walked over to the boy, who had been trailing behind. He began to unlock the chains which kept him attached to another member of the crew, then pulled roughly on the chains, dragging him away from the hoofbeasts. Though several people would follow him out to this space, there were usually very few prisoners; the other officers would simply stand on the side and observe. Today's head was massive, towering over the other officials. Like most execution leads, his coat was carefully threaded with the same color as his blood; thick indigo fabric outlined most of the larger pockets. Strapped along the belt of his coat were weapons, the most notable of them being a sickle and a pair of clubs.

Today's course would be light; a thin boy, probably no more than fourteen or fifteen years of age, weak and wiry. Dave could hear the uneasy clanging of shackles far too heavy for his wrists and neck. Above all else, he looked tired; Dave see the dark circles under the boy's eyes from nights, possibly even years of fitful sleep. Sure, seemed sad; most would be depressed, afraid of dying. But he seemed to have just given up, resigned himself to his fate; like he had been fatigued from battle.

Dave listened as they were reading the boy's rites, praying that something, someone, anything would swoop down and save him. He could hear the charges piled against him; the main ones being hemofraud - the faking of one's blood color – and hemomutation – being off the blood-tinged hemospectrum that ruled troll society, though it wasn't his fault.

Morally, he hadn't done anything wrong, just fought for survival. But he had been cursed to break the law from the moment he was born, helpless to society's whims. Dave had once heard that people are in control of their own fates, yet everything about this boy's life seemed to betray that thought.

Dave could see him a bit more closely now, age more apparent. The prisoner's body was tiny and made him appear younger, his growth probably stunted at a young age due to his mutation. But his face had lost the roundness of a child long ago; every side of it contained sharp, sunken edges, shadows running along the contours of his face. His hair was dark and curly and wild, curling around too-tiny horns. He probably wasn't much younger than Dave was.

This was made all the more apparent by the boy's eyes. From what Dave had observed of trolls, as they aged, their eyes began to tint according to their blood color. Some trolls would hit maturity early; most of the ones Dave had seen had just started to tinge around his age. But this boy's eyes were a flaming, brilliant red; they had clearly filled in at least some months ago. How long, then, had he been held captive for?

Dave threw himself out of his musings as he caught the distant glint of metal, a sickle raised to the target's neck; the collar around his neck had been removed, revealing raw, red skin. Gray eyelids slipped over his eyes, surrendering himself to death. But instead of slicing through his throat, executioner simply lifted the sickle from his neck, letting his arm sway gently to the side. The sickle remained grasped, but the agent refused to move it.

He'd never seen anything like this before. Were they letting the boy go, baiting strings of mercy above his head? No, that couldn't be. That would never happen. The prisoner seemed to be having the same thoughts as you; his eyes were wide open with shock, bright eyes burning underneath the sun. Dave listened closely, trying to find out why the execution had stopped. The one with the sickle began to step to the side, slowly raising a hand, fingers wrapping around the back of the convict's neck. He wouldn't meet the eyes of the executioner, who bent in, almost closing the distance between his lips and the boy's ear.

"Did you honestly think we'd let you off that easily?" he barked into it. "A swift death, for someone like you?"

The prisoner swallowed and took a breath, refusing to speak, as if it were a final act of defiance.

"Answer me!"

"Do you honestly think that I'm that stupid, Gamzee? You've known me, were friends with me for fifteen fucking years, and you don't know that?" he snorted.

"Friends? Karkat, brother, we were never friends." He turned away from Karkat and grinned, teeth glinting in the sunlight. From where Dave was, he could see the thinnest film over Gamzee's eyes.

Karkat stared at the back of his former friend, studying him intensely, trying to absorb the last bit of familiarity to him, even if his final moments alive would be the farthest from comforting. At the same time, there was a distance in his eyes, as if he were trying all too desperately to comprehend something far out of his grasp.

Until Gamzee blinked and lifted the sickle, claws wrapping tightly around Karkat's arm. Gamzee dug his nails in, tiny droplets of blood forming around the tips of sharp nails. Karkat winced, desperately trying to pry him off with his other hand. Gamzee tightened his grip, slowly pushing the prisoner down to his knees. As soon as his knees hit the floor, a noisome crack shattered the air quickly drowned out by a shrill scream.

Tears began to stream down Karkat's face as he gazed back up at him, eyes wide and pleading for Gamzee to stop. To his relief, he loosened the grip on Karkat's arm. Karkat began to catch his breath, though his face stayed wrinkled with pain; his eyes were still bulging, terrified. But even still, Gamzee could sense when Karkat became slightly less tense. He opened his mouth to speak.

"Sickles were always your thing."

"Y-yeah," he stammered.

"I know how much you like them, Karkat."

"Mm." He gulped, a new wave of tears ready to come gushing out. Karkat tried to look away, but Gamzee thrust the sickle under Karkat's chin, blade grazing him.

"If there's anything I hate more than sickles, it's a scared, weak little motherfucker like you trying to calm me down."

"Y-yeah, I'm wrong, I'm an idiot."

Gamzee grinned.

"Glad we're on the same page, brother," he sneered.

Karkat slammed his eyes shut as he felt a searing pain open on his broken arm, sickening warmth spreading in every direction across his skin. Gamzee snickered and dropped the sickle; the sharp metal clang rang in Karkat's ears.

"These," Gamzee said, unhooking a pair of clubs from his belt, "are more my style."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

By now, Dave would have fled the scene; after all, if they were to catch him eavesdropping, he would have been captured; killed, even. Despite the fact that, yes, he was a great deal stronger than most trolls, taking on an entire group of highbloods wasn't exactly recommended.

But today, his muscles were frozen, eyes wide as he watched the scene before him unfold. He had never observed for this long; though he normally witnessed the prisoners being brought forward, he couldn't stand watching the actual execution take place. Once he left, the victims no longer existed, the executioner was a long way away. It wasn't his problem, he hadn't seen anything, hadn't taken in the disturbed expression of a life about to be prematurely ripped from the shackles.

To be fair, it really wasn't any of his business. If he were to save one of the trolls – and he could never completely tell if they were as innocent as they seemed – he'd have to deal with an army trying to hunt him down. And he definitely didn't want that. Besides, even if Dave could manage to free the troll and escape, there was a good chance they would be afraid of him.

That was just how it worked. Even though beings like him were a rarity - even extinct to some – the stigma would never go away. Hundreds of years of your kind swooping down from the skies to torment the trolls, and to a lesser extent, humans, would do that. Of course, that hadn't happened for a long time – the last great winged kingdom, Skaia, had been destroyed four hundred years ago, its survivors spreading throughout the land. And even then, it had been tiny; its lofty population had always been small, and had shrunk even more in the war.

But even if it was that long ago, the fear always remained because they knew you were stronger than them. Sure, you could walk around in a town populated by humans without being attacked – and even then, that was only because they weren't alive when his kind had ruled both nations. Many of the trolls – the higher blooded with longer lifespans – were still alive, had memories of loved ones being interrogated on the streets while under the watchful eyes of their "superiors." Remembered their friends being whisked away without warning, possibly to be killed.

When even most humans were still noticeably uncomfortable around Dave, it wasn't too much of a jump to conclude that most of troll society still visibly feared the i-word.

But no matter how much he tried to tell himself that saving the prisoner would be a bad idea, he couldn't seem to shake it. And no, it wasn't because he felt guilty; he'd only spoken to others on rare occasions, he'd known that his forebears did some pretty fucked up things. He had told himself that he was a separate entity from them. He had their wings, looked like them, only tried to fly because it was the only thing he really had left. To be willing to proudly display himself to the world, to show it that he wasn't like his ancestors. No, no, no, definitely not like them, he chanted, a mantra reaming its way through his mind. He couldn't be one of those monsters, he couldn't possibly share the same name as them.

_They were evil, you just happen to share the same body structures, the same wings, the same name, the same everything. No, Dave, shut up, you're not like them, you never will be, you don't have to worry about them. They're a different species altogether, right? Yes, that's right, a different set of beings, there's no way you could even be that cruel-_

* * *

Mind blank, Karkat gazed back up at Gamzee. Reddish tears slid down his face and his mouth hung wide open in shock, as if he had truly hoped that his once-friend wouldn't dare lay a hand on him. It had been wishful thinking on his part, sure, but it was also his last resort, a way to lessen the pain. If he prayed that Gamzee would save him, there was still a possibility that he would live through this. That was how it was supposed to go – friends looked out for each other, saved each other when they were in their lowest, most vulnerable states.

Then he remembered the dreaded "once" that preceded Gamzee's state as the club came cascading down; Karkat was barely able to lift his arms over his head in time, ducking underneath and letting a few crimson drops fall into his matted hair before the club connected with him and he felt a harsh snapping in his back.

His strength rapidly left his body as he sank further to the dusty ground. Gritty gray hands tried to clench in fright but failed miserably, mind too focused on returning oxygen to the rest of his body. It was then that he realized he couldn't breathe, that he tried to suck in air but it never seemed to reach his lungs. Almost like he was drowning, but the only thing suffocating him was his own body. The pain from his spine and ribs swelled hastily, too-large hands trying to compress him until his organs exploded.

It was only then that he realized that he was going to die, that the light would forever leave his eyes; he would be left to darkness, unable to escape. His soul would cease to be in this very spot, and all that would be leftover would be the empty shell of his body, the details of his life forever lost to the world.

Of course they had chosen Gamzee, melee-weapon-torture-extraordinaire, to kill him. Of course they had chosen his former friend – dare he use the term moirail, a word he hadn't thought of in years – to erase him. Of course he had been _thrilled_ to show off his skills to a public that would accept him, unlike Karkat.

And of course Karkat had hoped in vain that he wouldn't have to die. That some way, Gamzee would remember the nights Karkat stood by him, losing whatever little sleep he would have normally managed to piece the rarely sober troll back together. That he'd reminisce on the times when Karkat was able to calm him down by merely raising a finger to his mouth and patting his head. That he'd somehow recall what mercy was.

Karkat knew, but that hadn't stopped him from trying.

It was why now, though he could barely manage a breath and gather the courage to mutter something to Gamzee. The other members of the team couldn't hear it; Gamzee himself barely could. But he didn't need to listen to understand the pain beneath Karkat's now-furrowed eyebrows, the anger behind his scowl.

The expression that said, _I hope you fucking rot in hell with me._

* * *

Dave trembled, bending back behind the mass, the image of Karkat struggling to move branded into his mind. The wide open eyes, the helplessness of being unable to breathe, the fear of not waking up at the end of everything, of cowering alone with no one to help you-

His hands were jittery, his arms shuddering as if they were lifting the universe with only their raw strength. He kept shaking his head, trying to prevent the dreadful memory from resurfacing. Dave's pulse quickened, heart pumping blood to every part of his body as he tried to steady his breathing, tried to stop the cold sweat and chills from barraging forth and consuming him.

But no matter what he did, he could never stop it once it started.

Images mechanically danced through his psyche, straining their way through every one of Dave's cells. He could still feel the strangling heat of that day on his skin, taste the salty tears that ran down his face, saw the darkness of shut, scared eyelids; smelled the mustiness of the tiny cabinet he'd stuffed his body into, wings twisted and contorted painfully in order to fit; heard the gunshot echoing in his ear like it was happening here and now.

But then the images shifted, and instead of his misshapen thirteen-year-old body, he could only see Karkat and his blazing eyes darting back and forth in the darkness, legs barely longer than his own had been. The darkness of the cabinet slowly morphed into the scorching orange rock; the unseen form beyond the cabinet that had caused the gunshot slowly morphed into a towering figure with holding a pair of clubs. And then, only one thing crossed his mind.

_-Oh my god, this kid is going to fucking die if I don't do something._

Dave suddenly found himself being lifted, or rather, he was the one doing the lifting - pulling himself to the top of the rock he had been hiding behind. Nails scratched the burning bedrock, hoping to find a chasm to grasp as shoes lost their traction. Gathering all the strength in his arms, he hoisted his body over the edge, barely able to stop himself from falling back down. The inside of his body trembled from the adrenaline coursing through his veins, trying to catch his breath. His feathers stood up, the muscles in his wings tensed and released.

Before the thought could manifest itself, he was extending his wings, the shadows from them peeking out. They swelled, greyness enveloping the ground, daring to capture the feet of the execution team standing by. The group caught sight of the ever-approaching shadow, turning their heads in disbelief toward the monster approaching them. From one of them came the shouting of the dreaded i-word and then, the spreading of their own shadows.

For once, they seemed afraid, but just as they should have been. They deserved it, Dave kept telling himself. He wouldn't let them get away, not after they had killed so many helpless trolls. They kept shouting orders to each other, gruff voices mixing together into a cocktail of anxiety-controlled thoughts. He ran after one, watched it trying to speed up in vain as he caught up to its heels and rammed it into the side of the crag. One by one, Dave followed suit, bringing down each member in a similar fashion, their barely conscious bodies falling to the dust. The cracking of bones permeated the dusty air.

Dave steadied himself, the rush proving to be too much in such a short time. He could barely breathe, had already exerted himself too much. But he had to keep going, he thought as he turned around.

The only one left was Gamzee, who had shifted his attention from Karkat and was now coming for Dave, a club in each hand. Unable to move away in time, Dave threw his arms in front of his face, bracing for the moment when the metal would connect with them. It came with an audible bang, and Dave winced, bringing back his arms as Gamzee brought the club down again, crashing it against a shoulder, and then once more; this time, against one of Dave's wings.

For a moment, he felt numb, like the injury hadn't happened. But then Dave could feel a tearing working its way through his muscles as the bones broke apart, making him lose his balance. His face smashed ungracefully against the rock, and he could feel a warmth erupting from his skin and running through his nose, down his cheeks. He thrust his arms out and pushed, rolling his body away just in time to miss another of his foe's attacks; a groan escaped his throat as he brushed the now-sensitive area of his wing against the ground.

Dave grasped at the ground, trying to summon the last of his strength to lift himself up. Soon, he found himself charging at Gamzee. The troll had yet to turn around, and Dave caught him by surprise, tackling him. His body slammed against the ground, head slamming against the stone.

It was over. Gamzee had lost consciousness.

* * *

Karkat's eyes were still open, eyelids fluttering as he fought to stay awake. He felt like the entire world was swaying below him, ready to break apart and drop him into an abyss. This was it. He was dying, much more quickly than he thought he would. His eyes would shut, his soul would be lost, just like he had realized.

He wasn't ready, he didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave behind everyone that he had known, even though they had all abandoned him. He wanted to have a few moments just to relive the few precious good memories he had of moving, breathing, loving, living. But instead, this haze, this pain, these breaths slipping in and out of his body would be his final experience. At least it would all be over soon.

Vision blurry, he stared at the clear sky. Cruel irony would have him die on a day when nothing seemed amiss, when those who could cherish life would be able to go out and run through their daily schedules, perhaps even bask in the sunlight. But not him, not the person who wanted nothing more than to live freely.

Karkat's eyes suddenly filled with darkness, and he let himself fall into the abyss. At the bottom, he felt a heaviness lift itself from him, a warmth brushing his skin, the pressure of something soft being pushed against his arm. He felt pain rocket through it once more, and then nothing.

He was free.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The entire world seemed to be closing in on Dave, the air condensing so that it quickly overtook his body, crushing his heart. He could feel his bones violently shaking inside, his eyes darting this way and that. Knees had dropped to the ground, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, process what had just happened. His heart thumped, he was covered in sweat; his fingers shuddered, curling in and out, unable to keep still. Below him laid the prisoner; eyes beginner to flutter, vision wavering. Blood spilled from the wound on his arm, pooling on the ground.

He had to work, and he had to work quickly; there was no time to stop and think about the crime he had just committed, the horrid sin that made him just like them no stop-

Dave muttered curses under his breath as he tried to steady the anxiety-ridden fingers, grasping the shackles that still held Karkat to the open tomb, the grave that he would end up making a home in if he didn't move. He gritted his teeth, slammed his eyes shut as his forehead. A numbing spread through his injured shoulder, then a piercing. He winced, entire body going limp for a moment, the weight of his wings heavy on his back.

For a moment, he felt dizzy, the pain being the only thing he could focus on. But then he kept pulling, knuckles turning white for mere moments before the pressure was suddenly released, the shackles falling apart in his grasp. And then came the searing in his shoulder once more.

It hurt, but he had to keep going, had to save the boy who was bleeding out, whose eyes had slipped shut. The boy who was going to die before his eyes, like the many who had been slaughtered before him – the ones Dave had never acknowledged, the children whose blood had painted the barren rock for centuries -

In that split second, he considered leaving Karkat to die; after all, it wouldn't have been that much different from the other times he had run away, right? There was just the sight of the actual blood that he would have to deal away with, nobody had to know at all, no one except for the trolls he had attacked – killed? – and, _Oh fuck_, he realized, _I'm in too deep._

And then he returned his attention to the rapidly weakening form below him, recollecting the moment when he had decided to save him, how Karkat's eyes were the same as his from all those years ago and even though he'd seen that same expression countless times there was something special about this time that he couldn't place his finger on. But he had no time to think about that. Reflections would come later, once they were both safe.

He wracked his brain, trying to unearth what to do next. _Wound_, right. _Bandage_ of some sort. But _what to do_ with that bandage? _Pressure, pressure,_ just like Dirk had done all those years ago when he had been training him, when his body was broken and bleeding in a whole bunch of different places, _pressure_ by the _wound,_ yes, yes, that's good, but _what kind_ of bandage? _Clothing, tear,_ got it. _Tie, compression._ Breathe, _he'll be okay, right? No, don't question,_ breathe, _break_ the other shackles. Arms around him, _lift_ - _Oh god, that hurts like a bitch_.-

-_Run._

* * *

John hadn't been practicing for very long. In fact, he had only recently finished his surgical training. He had no choice but to live near the border between Alternia and Gaia; despite being trained under one of the most accomplished surgeons in existence, he still had little money. And even then, surgeons weren't respected – not as much as the physicians who already had the well-rooted prestige and old wealth necessary for such esteem.

Granted, it wasn't as if John had lacked money – after all, he lived with his sister in a relatively nice house with a small chunk of land. But even then, he was days away from the capital at the shortest, and that wasn't even on foot. That was why the house had been so cheap.

He just had to deal with the problems the boundary line set. As in, the denizens that occasionally crossed the border illegally.

All right, so maybe he did avoid Alternia. A bit actively. Yeah, trolls were pretty bad business. Actually, that was an understatement. Though he wouldn't admit it, since a multitude of trolls usually came knocking on his door, desperate for medical attention after having narrowly escaped a group of bounty hunters, or worse, the reapers that were actually paid by their government to kill them. They would be broken, bloody, sympathetic-

But then he would stop himself, because they couldn't feel. It was impossible to consider something that had less-than-human ideals on equal footing with him. A race that could maim, become violent so easily was one he truly didn't want to have a part of. He was lucky he and his sister were human, he always told himself. Humans could never become like that. And he was thankful that his friend, Dave, was human, at least to an extent.

So when he heard a banging on the door, the last thing that he wanted to see was a certain friend of his cradling an unconscious one of them. But that was the least of his problems at the moment, considering he was a bit more preoccupied with the array of their blood painting his friend's body.

"Dave, what the fuck?"

"John, just. Ignore. Me. Save him. Please."

"Dave, what the fuck?" he said again, the last word barely leaving his lips. He began to step backward, away from Dave. There was no way he was going anywhere near his friend, if he could even call the grotesque figure before him that. Was it even Dave? How could he have done something like that – even if they were trolls?

He could kill, John knew that. It was in his race's genes; they were capable of becoming horribly violent, with their bulking statures, far, far worse than trolls. In that way, they weren't so different. But there was a sense of humanity that enveloped them, a tenderness that they were capable of approaching life with. Dave had that, or at least John had thought so when he had found him all those years ago.

He swallowed and took a breath.

"Dave, you're asking me to help a troll, of all people? Look at yourself, for crying out fucking loud! If you're asking me, I think you're the one who needs help right now!"

"John, that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth. Are you going to let someone die in my fucking arms, in front of you? Please, John, please, I just don't want him to die." He whispered the last part, drawing the form in his arms slightly closer to his body. "Please."

John stared at Dave for what seemed like years, thinking. If he didn't do anything to help the troll, his friend would almost certainly do something rash. And he had to protect his sister. Questions would have to wait; self-preservation was the most important thing in his mind.

"Give him to me, then."

He motioned to Dave, who stood up and walked toward him. Relief crossed Dave's face as he passed the unconscious boy into John's arms. Dave bit his lip and kept his eyes on the unconscious figure for a moment, then looked back up at John.

"Be careful, I think he's got some broken ribs."

"I'm the doctor, Dave. I think I'll be the judge of that," John spat, shifting Karkat so that he would be easier to carry. "Just stay here, okay? And close the damn door while you're here."

He hesitated for a moment, stopping to turn around and look at Dave once more before heading toward the examination room.

* * *

It had only been about twenty years prior that the wondrous properties of ether had been discovered. Its ability to render patients unconscious during surgeries had been lauded, and it had become somewhat common practice to use it. Even more important, though, had been the discovery of sterilization – ten years after, a man had sprayed his surgical instruments with a carbolic spray, resulting in a sharp decrease in mortality rates.

Truly, it was astonishing how much the field had advanced since the dawn of the last century. What wasn't amazing, however, was how much it had lagged behind the development of other technologies. And far worse was the fact that almost all progress after the last war had been stalled between Alternia and John's own kingdom out of fear that any developments would only serve to perpetuate war between the two worlds.

In a way, it had worked. Neither civilization had fought since then. But because of that, both societies became frozen in time, still containing many of the same ideals of all those years ago, the same amount of contempt. And despite how much he denied it, John definitely had some degree of hatred for trolls; not enough to deliberately mistreat them, certainly, but just enough to not trust most. Hell, he didn't completely trust the I- either; they had abused humans long ago, too, though not as much as trolls. They were huge, with unprecedented strength; they had been the terrors of the sky.

But the airships invented four hundred years ago had brought them down, along with their unrivaled ambitions._ And they hadn't been that bad_, John had often told himself._ They barely hurt us, they only attacked the trolls because they needed to; anyone would have to, being as violent as they are._

There wasn't much of a reason to fear them anymore, though the rare sighting of one would shake most people up. They were still capable of being monstrous, even if they were more empathetic than trolls. But that shred of empathy was why most could walk around freely in human society, or at least as freely as they could. Some were attacked, most were at the very least outcast. That was the worst.

If they stepped one foot over the border to Alternia, they were immediately killed.

But there was the tiny tract of land that they had claimed long ago, before the boundary line between the two kingdoms had been established. They were allowed to keep it, using it as their execution grounds. In the evenings, hushed voices told that the spirits of dead trolls would chase down any human that set foot near there until the rock had burned through the bottoms of their shoes, when their lungs would finally collapse in their bodies. And then, the ghosts would kill them, dragging the innocent human into the same hell they had been through.

No, trolls definitely were not sympathetic creatures, no matter how desperate they appeared when they appeared at John's door. That was why everyone stayed away from them.

But in years past, Dave's brother had helped him cultivate his skills nearby. Unfortunately, the area they had settled in was dangerously close to the border. John had once asked Dave why they opted to stay there when Dirk could have easily found another place for them to stay, but he could never give John a definite answer, claiming that it may have been to help him train.

And John hadn't even known Dave before that incident five years ago, when he had heard the gunshot echoing through the plains. He had chased down the source of the sound and found Dave with his arms wrapped around his knees, hiding his face from whatever terror had spooked their home. He had found a blanket lying about the house, far from the blood that had stained the kitchen, and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. He held him close to his chest, running his fingers through the boy's stringy hair and rocking him as tears spilled down his cheeks.

Dave had mumbled something about Dirk and John had left him momentarily to check, but he couldn't find anyone. John had assumed he was dead, his body having been dragged off by his attacker, probably a group of trolls who found out about his existence. Even though they technically couldn't cross the border without clearance, some bounty hunters - and even officials - would take advantage of the weak security in order to hunt escaped convicts, as well as anyone who was perceived to be a threat. And Dirk, who so often spread his wings to show Dave that it was okay to be what they were, – even though the truth was far from that – would have easily caught their attention.

To this day, Dave still doesn't remember anything past the gunshot.

* * *

After Dirk's death, Dave had settled into John's home for a short time. Though John was no father figure, being older than Dave by a mere six years, he still felt that it was in Dave's best interest to at least have someone to live with. Since he had no relatives, John and his sister had stepped in to care for him. Besides, it wasn't like he could go back to the old home, anyway - not when it could have possibly been under surveillance.

Even though John warned Dave to stay away, he was still far too stubborn to actually listen to him. Whether that had to do with the age difference or some other internal reason, John had no idea. He would try to question Dave, similar to how he had asked Dave about his living arrangements, but Dave would usually simply avoid the question, instead choosing the veer the conversation off to some distant tangent.

Surely, there was a reason why he would deter answering, but again, John never understood _why_. Often, he would call Dave out whenever he avoided the inquiry, but Dave would simply put on a stoic face, replying as if he had no idea what John was talking about.

John knew that he suppressed his emotions. As much as Dave tried to hide it, he could see the dilation of his pupils, the occasional faint glimmers of hope and sadness in his irises when he and John would converse. And on even rarer occasions, the faint wrenching of a smirk or smile at the edges of his lips, though he refused to let it be more than that. He was lucky that Dave didn't have anything blocking his eyes, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to even recognize the faintest hints of emotion in his friend.

For the longest time, he had asked himself why Dave tried so hard to bury his emotions inside of his chest, only to lose control of the closures to his heart and set them free. Was he trying to be the barbarian that people like him had been destined to become? Was he fighting a war deep inside his mind, his savage side slowly trying to take hold as the tiny shards of humanity left in him continued to pierce holes in his heart, the blood from those wounds leaking out despite his attempts to halt the gushing?

Was Dave inevitably trying to become like the unconscious creature he was setting down on the examination table?

He had no idea.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Dave stood in the empty expanse of the hallway; rotting wood stretched beyond his feet, leading into the rest of the house. Hanging on the wall was a single lonely painting, the only one in the house. He had watched John create it back when he was first brought to this place. Seeing John studying the painting so intently, his brush sliding across the rough canvas would calm him in the early days after Dirk's death. Or what was assumed to have been his death, anyway.

In those days a focused John had been a rare sighting, even to his own sister. So when something caught his attention for any amount of time, the temporary silencing of jokes and pranks was almost unnerving. But when one was in the room alone with John, watching his trained hand masterfully swipe paint across the blank slate, that quietness was no longer bothersome. He would be hunched over and wouldn't even look in the direction of his friend, except for the occasional smile or nod. Even when his back began to ache, even when the blue of his eyes began to roll toward the back of his head as sleep dared to pull his mind and body begrudgingly toward bed, he stayed focused until he finished what he had to do.

Though his focus stayed, his passion for art had long since died, the skills of those trained hands instead having their way with calculated scalpel cuts. And that concentration had taken up permanent residence in John's brain and eyes, more often than not unhinging any compassion he had.

Dust had accumulated along the painting's frame, long forgotten by Jade whenever she had cleaned the home. Funny how it was always left untouched, yet everything else would be spotless, or as spotless as aged dishes and furniture could be. There had always been an air of grime about the place (or at least something musty and long forgotten), even when Dave had first been brought there

In the painting stood two blotches; they were a boy and a girl, both with dark hair. They faced in opposite directions, clouds mingling in the air around their bodies, obscuring the boy's chest and the top of the girl's head. Between them stretched a long, wrought iron fence. Faces had been blurred out, but one could tell by the dull coloring around them that this was not a happy parting. Truly, no separation is pleasing, but this one had felt final.

There had been something different about John when he had painted it. Instead of tranquil eyes and carefully pursed lips and steady hands, his eyebrows had furrowed as his entire body rattled. The paintbrush had poked at the canvas repeatedly, lines of paint coming down in blotches and sharp lines. And John's face had twisted into a grotesque, unrecognizable scowl.

He never picked up a brush after that day.

* * *

The winged boy was only barely beginning to catch his breath, the scattered images of what had just occurred replaying in his mind like a broken zoetrope. He had attacked someone. No, a bunch of people. And had he killed them? No, that was impossible. No, he wasn't vicious like that, he kept telling himself. _Not like them, not like them, not like them._

But he could still feel the adrenaline ripping through his veins, the need to attack his enemies still hanging in the forefront of his mind.

He wasn't done yet. And he was scared, struggling to regain control of his mind, to crush these thoughts that weren't quite his own yet felt completely right, to quell his protection instincts. And they kept fighting and fighting to break free and control him once more. He could feel his fingertips just wanting to reach out and choke _something_, his thoughts already several steps ahead of him as they processed a million possible strategies to utilize next. _If they came to John's door, if they stepped in, if they were still alive-_

_Stopstopstoppullyourselftogether-_

_No! You idiot, you could have killed someone, how can you pull yourself together-_

_But I didn't kill anyone, right-_

_But you almost did and that's bad enough-_

_But I didn't-_

_I didn't._

_Right?_

_I didn't._

Thoughts tossed back and forth in his head, his brain coming up with a million responses to every new question that he raised, every second of self-doubt that he had. He was drowning, drowning until his reflections came to a halt as he realized that, indeed, he hadn't actually murdered anyone just a short time ago. He had come damn _close_, but he _hadn't._

That was the one thing he needed to remind himself of, the only thing that could reasonably calm him down. But even when his breaths began to even out, when his muscles loosened, he couldn't deny the blood that had spilled onto his skin, encroached under his finger nails, embedded into him. Had he gone insane, attacking someone for something that he had no business in? Was he slowly becoming one of _them_, instincts taking over? Or was it something more horrible, far more dangerous than even they had been?

His heart quickened once more, thumping hard in his chest; his knees buckled as he slid down against the wall. All at once, waves rippled from the injury he had sustained earlier, stretching to his spine and leaving him unable to move. His head was pounding, teeth gritted from both pain and stress.

For a moment, he regained control of his body, folding his legs close to his body and wrapping his arms around them. Tossing these conflicting thoughts in his head, he began to feel helpless, weak. After all, if he wasn't as bad as_ them_, wasn't one of _them_, then he wouldn't have done _that._ But then if he was as horrid as they were, how come he hadn't _killed _them?

And John clearly didn't trust him anymore, not after he had shown up covered in blood and carrying a troll, of all creatures he could have selected. Though he could barely process it at the time, he had absorbed John's movements; the widening of his pupils, his subtle steps back, his staggered and repetitive speech that almost echoed his own in that very moment – they all told him that John was afraid of him.

What would happen to him now? The other trolls would almost certainly begin looking for him – and Karkat (When had he become so positive that, yes, that was indeed his name and he hadn't misheard?) – soon; how quickly, he had no idea. They probably couldn't stay very long; not that John would probably let them, anyway. And even if they left, he and Karkat had no supplies, no way to defend themselves; in any situation they would both die quickly, their remains succumbing to the dusty ground.

Every path out involved death, and it was all too much for Dave to bear. Despite his desperate pleas, despite how much he tried to close his eyes and bury these fears deep in his heart, they kept coming, betraying him, releasing. All at once he could feel his defenses breaking down further as his eyes blurred and he buried his face in his knees, the pain he felt in his body ever-growing. And for the very first time since Dirk's disappearance – it had already seemed like it had been decades ago – he let hot tears fall down his face, biting his lip as he tried to will them away.

All too quickly, he was drowning.

Dave had no idea what to do.

* * *

Unheard by Dave were the soft but hurried footfalls on the steps, toes hidden by a cumbersome bustle skirt. Fingers only lightly tapped at the railing, trying to conceal any noise betrayed by existence.

She had seen everything, though her brother had no idea. And from her perch atop the steps, she had dissected the scene as it had played out, observed Dave's movements as he tried to convince John to care for the bundle that had been in his arms, felt her brother's cold eyes as they had stared Dave down and reduced him to little more than a vicious animal, tethering him to the entrance of the house - away from him and her, and unable to leave to seek consolation.

In a way, she couldn't blame John. After all, he was simply trying to protect them, right? And of course, most normal people would be rather frightened if their friend walked in covered in blood – and troll blood, no less.

But maybe she was a bit naïve, that very naivety perhaps passed down by her older brother once he began to age out of frolic-ridden adventures and into procedure and metal instruments. After all, she was daring to get closer to Dave, to waltz near someone who had possibly killed another living being. Even so, something in Dave's actions – perhaps the unheard of hesitance in his words or the trembling of his body – told her that he hadn't, or that if he did, it had not been on purpose. And even though she shook a bit herself, she knew that he wouldn't hurt her. Especially not when he had slumped against the wall, letting tears spill from his eyes.

It was why she wasn't afraid. Dave clearly knew the severity of his actions, or even if he didn't know everything, he still understood there was a horrifying, blistering truth; a bloody carnality that he was only beginning to become aware of. That very shock had left him paralyzed – and sane.

She would still have to be careful, though. As far as she knew, Dave was unaware of her presence. Her approach would have to be very careful so she wouldn't shock him. With that in mind, she had descended down the steps, carefully inching toward him when she reached the floor.

Jade knelt down next to him, gingerly slipping her hand across his shoulder, down to his back, between the two wings. For a moment, the feathers closed tightly around her hand, wings tense as Dave twisted his head away from his knees to look at her with wide eyes, brows furrowed, forehead creased.

She didn't break her gaze.

"Dave," she began, the word barely escaping her lips.

"J-Jade, get away," he replied, struggling to find the words he needed to say, growing more rigid. "I'm not safe to be around-"

Fingertips pressed lightly, rubbing small circles into his back. The muscles below relaxed, tension releasing as feathers began to ruffle; wings stiffened as his chest stilled, refusing to let breaths escape his lips. Gracing his knuckles was a wildly different tint than she was accustomed to, the colors that unmistakably were those of higher blooded trolls.

Dave was strong, she reminded herself. Dave was strong, but he wouldn't attack anyone without purpose. She opened her mouth again.

"It's okay, Dave. It's okay."

"It's not, though. Nothing is, and nothing will be. Never."

Jade bit her lip, breaking eye contact for a moment while she tossed thoughts back and forth, then continued.

"Was that what you told me after-" she hesitated. "After what happened to Dirk?"

Dave shook his head, disagreeing.

"No, but it's not the same. You're not stupid, Jade, I'm covered in fucking troll blood."

She took another breath and kept rubbing. Dave's adrenaline rush had long since subsided, replaced by the shaky realization of the events that had occurred. If she could calm him down, he would open up to her.

"Come on, I'll clean you up," she gestured, moving to tug on one of his hands. He ripped his hand away, stumbling to his feet. Dave reached out, trying to press his hand against the wall to steady himself. When Jade tried to help him, he simply turned away, fear in his eyes.

"You know your brother will kill me if I'm anywhere near you." He protested, the volume of his voice rising slightly. "And how do you know I won't hurt you, Jade? How the hell can you trust me when _**I**_ have no idea what I'm going to do next? I'm awful, Jade, I'm no better than-"

"Because I know that you'd never hurt anyone without a good reason to, Dave! Because I'm smart enough to know when I'm actually in danger, and I know pretty damn well that you won't hurt me! Just listen to me, Dave, and I'll help you. I promise, I'll listen."

Dave met Jade's eyes once more, lips suppressing his trepidation, before he agreed.

* * *

**Notes: **

** As of now, Dave and Karkat have not spoken to each other. However, this _is, _primarily, a DaveKat fic. I predict that Dave and Karkat will begin to interact in either the next chapter, or the one after. In addition, I predict that this fic will involve _at least_ 20 characters, some more important than others. Propelling the story, however, will be Dave and Karkat's relationship and how it affects the world around them. The slow pacing, especially this early on, is necessary to help establish a lot of the basic themes, as well as the first major arc in the story.**

**With that said, I hope you enjoy the ride!**


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